


Different Worlds, Same Planet

by Diminua



Series: Different Worlds, Same Planet. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, M/M, Swearing, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 19:23:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diminua/pseuds/Diminua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taken from a meme prompt: Mycroft is in the upper year of the poshest private school the right side of Eton, and is already a perfect example of an important model citizen, much to his doting, if stuffy, parents’ overwhelming delight.<br/>Lestrade is a social failure and former Borstal brat, who dropped out of school three years ago and has spent his days since then on the dole and polluting the streets with his motorcycle, much to his parents complete ignorance, seeing as he’s an orphan and has no idea who they are.<br/>Somehow, their lots fall in with one another and the most unlikely relationship begins to develop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Can You Dig it?

**Author's Note:**

> It's a fairly long time since I was 17, so I've decided to set this fic in the early 90s. Also I'm actually copying across from Livejournal, editing as I go, so technically this fic is complete, and if you think you've read it before you probably have. Sorry about that.

  
‘What on earth is  _he_  doing in here?’

‘Nice jacket.’

‘Please, he looks like a pleb.’ 

‘Go on Mycroft, you’re a prefect. Chase him off.’ 

Mycroft puts down his text book – he has been trying to memorise modern Greek verbs all morning – and gets to his feet, tuning out his classmates’ encouragement and teasing. The person they’re talking about is most of the way up the drive by now, walking past the smaller school building, gravel crunching under his boots, hair ruffled – no doubt by the helmet he is holding – into an untidy sort of quiff. As Mycroft approaches, keeping to the grass so he can’t be heard, he becomes aware of how loose those jeans are in the seat, the rips in the knees that aren’t purely due to fashion, the scuffing on the leather jacket that suggests someone has fallen off a motorbike at least once, the cigarette lit in the hand that isn’t carrying the helmet.

He looks like a bit of a daunting proposition actually, not much older than Mycroft himself, and shorter, but tempered and wiry. He stops, ready to stand up for himself as Mycroft intercepts him neatly, not getting too close but somehow managing not to appear as nervous as he feels. Mycroft is not fond of confrontation, even when he feels he is in the right. 

‘Excuse my asking. I don’t think you’re a member of this school are you?’

‘Can’t imagine how you worked that out.’ Lestrade flicks his ash on the driveway, takes another drag, staring at the other boy, curious and a bit contemptuous to see anyone of his own age in a school uniform. ‘I just came in for a look. No law against looking.’

‘There’s a law against trespass I believe.’ Mycroft says more boldly. 

‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’ Lestrade scowls, taking a step forwards as if he really does think attack the best form of defence. ‘Are you threatening me? Cos I’m not fucking scared.’ Mycroft blinks, a little startled to be sworn at with such vehemence for so little, but still refusing to step back. 

‘I’m only stating a fact. If the teachers catch you they’ll call the police. Is having a look really worth that much to you?’

‘Might be.’ Lestrade considers the point. ‘I’ve got nothing else on.’ Being arrested doesn’t scare him. He’d bet the police were a bit softer out here in the country, if anything. Not like the Met.

For a few seconds they pause, realising they’ve come to an impasse and one of them will have to back down.  
They are still both weighing the other up when the throwing open of a downstairs window distracts them and one of the housemasters peers out, clearly alerted by the student who is standing behind him. His friends might like to tease Mycroft, but they wouldn’t see him beaten up. 

‘What’s going on here Holmes?’ The master asks crisply. ‘Who is that young man?’ 

‘I think he’s lost Sir.’ Mycroft is a little surprised by how automatically the lie comes to his lips, how smooth the delivery. It’s not like him to lie to authority. ‘He’s trying to deliver a parcel to Clarence Avenue.’

‘Well tell him he can’t come through the school grounds. He’ll have to go back the way he came and round the premises.’ 

The fact that the teacher bangs the window shut again without ever looking at Lestrade or addressing him directly pisses him off, but he doesn’t bother to say so. He’s more interested in the way Mycroft reacts, pursed lips and a stiffness to him as he says. ‘Of course sir.’ to the closed window. It suggests what he'd really like to say is  _fuck you._  Not as buttoned up as he appears then. Interesting.

‘Yeah, he’s a git alright.’ Lestrade grins. ‘Glad I’ve left all that behind me. What does he teach?’

‘Physics and Chemistry. Neither of which I study, thank goodness.’ 

They walk back down the drive slowly, stalemate broken. An odd little meeting, Mycroft thinks, and he’s glad it has ended with honour approximately equal.

‘Well, cheers mate.’ Lestrade’s motorbike is parked up on the road, not a particularly powerful one, and Mycroft wonders if he has a full licence and if not, why he isn’t using L plates. He decides not to mention it. 

‘You’re entirely welcome.’ He murmurs instead. The phrasing makes Lestrade snigger, but after a moment he works out Mycroft means it sincerely and smiles a bit awkwardly instead. 

‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be a tosser.’ 

‘Goodbye then.’ Mycroft says, because that’s the conventional thing one says to a departing guest, even an unorthodox one.

‘Yeah, see you round.’ Lestrade answers, raising his voice to be heard over the engine as it stutters into life. He doesn't really expect to, of course. Not in a million years. 


	2. Can You Dig It?

Lestrade gets home to find two messages slipped under his room door. One just says ‘Jimmy called.’ Which, since he’s been trying to keep away from Jimmy and that crowd ever since the arrest, goes straight in the fireplace with a lighted match (he’s not supposed to burn stuff in the fireplace, it’s too near the bed, but it’s especially handy for dog ends and he doesn’t care). The other is an invite to a May Day party arranged by the local social services department. It’ll be orange juice and ham sandwiches and completely fucking awful probably, but there might be some people there he wants to catch up with. That woman, Sally something, who taught him to budget, she was quite nice, and she’s probably had the baby by now. 

So he sticks it to his pinboard just in case he’s in the mood on the day and then, because thinking of Sally reminds him to, he gets out his notebook and sits on the bed to go through his income and expenditure for the next couple of weeks. So much money for booze, fags, food and petrol, and maybe a little trip out of town at the end of it again, open the bike up a bit, stop at a pub for the cheapest meal going and a nice cold beer. The one he had today wasn’t at all bad actually, ploughmans and ale. He might do that again.  
He won’t go back to that school, although he does feel a sort of temptation to, just because he knows he shouldn’t. Well, mostly because he knows he shouldn’t. Also because that freckled kid was kind of entertaining. 

He shuts his notebook back in his bedside drawer and goes to find out whether he’s got any beans left for toast or if the kitchen thieves have been at it again (he doesn’t mind milk, milk is fair game, but he does wish the buggers would leave his tins alone).

 

Mycroft ponders packing some warm clothes and a raincoat for this weekend. The weather might be what other people call 'nice' now, but he means to be away for the whole two days finding Mummy a birthday present, and it could be building up to a storm. He's just tucking away a book or two as well when the other occupant of the room speaks again, distracting him.

‘Are you really going to get a taxi to the station? It’s only two miles.’ 

The speaker, Jeremy, is slight and blonde and draped over the rocking chair in Mycroft’s room as if he has a right to be there, see-sawing gently (Mycroft is determinedly not looking at the slight sway, the movement of the stomach muscles Jeremy is using) and lip curling with faint disdain.   
Mycroft wishes, yet again, that he didn’t find this particular boy so fascinating. There’s no sensible reason to. In everything but his appearance Jeremy is average and uninspired and yet, somehow, despite all his good sense and academic clout, Mycroft still cannot help but respond to those golden good looks. And so he finds himself agreeing to walk to the railway station rather than ride purely to make himself marginally more attractive to a dullard. It’s mortifying, and doesn’t become any less so on his way up the hill with the heat of the day pounding down on the back of his neck (He’ll probably burn. He does burn at the smallest provocation) and his overnight bag slung across his body.  
He’s so busy cursing Jeremy and being annoyed with himself that he passes within feet of Lestrade – just the low whitewashed wall of the pub garden between them – without noticing him until he speaks.

‘Blimey. The state of you and the price of chips.’   
Mycroft looks round, still red in the face and not at all merry and Lestrade grins a spectacularly evil grin and lifts his glass in a toast.   
Nettled, Mycroft approaches, determined to defend himself. He’s not unfit. He just ate a large lunch, that’s all. It was steak pie. He happens to like steak pie. Anyway it’s quite disgustingly hot. 

Somewhere between his brain and mouth this protest is refined down to: ‘It’s a warm day.’ 

‘Well then.’ Lestrade suggests. ‘Come and have a beer with me.’

‘I’m not old enough to drink. I’m not convinced you are either.’ 

‘Nah, I’ve got food. It’s legit.’ 

The thing is, Mycroft wants to sit down. It’s hot, he’s thirsty, and Lestrade is interesting. Genuinely interesting. Not interesting-because-he’s-very-pretty interesting (although actually, now Mycroft has time to look at him properly, that might be a bit of it too) and there are later trains into town, and he has all today and most of tomorrow to find Mummy a birthday present, and it would be rude to refuse. 

Mycroft runs out of self-justifications at that point, but that's alright. As he's already at the bar ordering a diet coke they'd be rather redundant at this stage. 

‘Blimey you’re green.’ Lestrade says as soon as he gets back. Mycroft is temporarily bewildered, wondering what he has done in the last minute or so that Lestrade could possibly find either verdant or eco-friendly.   
His confusion must be obvious because Lestrade rolls his eyes and jabs a finger at the overnight bag Mycroft left on the table when he went in to get his drink. ‘This, what is it, Gucci? You shouldn’t leave your stuff with someone you hardly know. You’ll get it nicked.’

‘Mulberry, not Gucci.’ Mycroft corrects him without thinking. ‘Either way, you didn’t steal it.’

‘You haven’t checked inside yet.’

‘I don’t believe you’ve stolen anything.’

‘Course I haven’t. That’s not the bloody point though.’ 

‘What is the bloody point then. Apart from the need to highlight my astounding naivety.’

‘You should be more careful.’

‘I will be more careful.’

‘Good.’

‘You sound like my form tutor.’

‘It’s only because you’re wet behind the ears.’

‘Bugger. Off.’ Mycroft enunciates both words fully, capital letters and a gap between and Lestrade smirks as if that was the reaction he was hoping to provoke (it probably was) and changes the subject. 

‘So where are you off to anyway?’


	3. Can You Dig It?

Next morning Mycroft and his new friend hit - the word is Gregory Lestrade's and slightly misleading - the antique shops of North London, throwing the proprietors into something of a tailspin, since they cannot try to sell things to Mycroft and keep a weather eye on Lestrade at the same time. 

'It's alright.' Mycroft tries to make things better. 'He's with me.' 

'Like that's going to help. Now she just thinks we're pulling a two man job.' Greg sticks his hands in his pockets and shrugs. 'You alright love? Would you be happier if I went outside.' 

'I don't think she liked being called that.' Mycroft says later, over sandwiches by the canal.

'I'm sure she didn't. That's why I said it.' Greg throws an apple up in the air, spinning it like a cricket ball, catches it again. 'I only normally call old dears love.'

'I'm sure many elderly women are delighted.' Mycroft says drily.

'Some of them.' Greg smirks. 'But not as much as some of the men.' 

 

'How much?' He protests, when Mycroft has finally found something he wants to buy for Mummy. 'You could buy a cd player for that.'

'My mother is unlikely to want a cd player.' 

Greg gives up and goes to wait outside, although afterwards he maintains Mycroft should have let him talk to the bloke. 

'It's the accent. He knew he could charge you whatever he liked.'

'Well, Mummy will be pleased with it.' 

'Mummy?' Lestrade doesn't actually laugh, but his expression says he's only holding it in because he _likes_ Mycroft.

'Slip of the tongue.' Mycroft knows he's blushing, and hates it. 'What do you call your mother then?'

'I don't.' He says, and although he's not grieving - _abandoned not bereaved_ Mycroft thinks - all the mirth drops out of his expression and he changes the subject fast.

Mycroft is not especially surprised to be called into his Housemaster’s study on his return to school two days later. Nor to find the man (his name is Mr Lyons) at his most avuncular and in many ways, his most irritating. He is particularly irked by the way the teacher takes his time considering Mycroft, chin leant on folded fingers, eyebrows slightly raised (a gesture Mycroft makes a mental note to learn. It seems a most effective way of making someone squirm, even if only inwardly) before eventually speaking, and then only at cross purposes.

‘I understand I should congratulate you on an excellent set of predictions for your A level results Mr Holmes. Trinity will be very glad to have you.’ 

‘Thank you sir.’ Mycroft says politely, waiting for the other sentence. The one that starts with ‘however’. He doesn’t have to wait long. 

‘However, I do feel it incumbent upon me to remind you that you’re not there yet.’ Mr Lyons adds. ‘And to advise you that until such time as you are no longer a student at this establishment, the public houses local to this school remain out of bounds.’ 

‘Yes sir.’ Mycroft squirms in actual physical fact this time, drawn in by the silence and the raised eyebrows to attempt to defend himself. ‘I apologise.’

‘Do you perhaps have any further comment or explanation to make?’  
Mycroft bites his lip, stifling the temptation to point out that this whole conversation is quite ridiculous, that Mycroft is very nearly legally adult, that everyone in their final year has been in that pub, and that he knows what this is really about and rather wishes Mr Lyons would get to the point. Instead he words his response with some care.

‘Only that I wasn’t attempting to purchase alcohol or set a bad example. I was simply sitting outside while my friend finished his meal.’ This appears to worry Mr Lyons rather than soothe him, which is also not a surprise. 

‘Would you describe that young man as a friend?’ He asks after a few moments.

‘Perhaps acquaintance would be more accurate.’ Mycroft is aware of the slight heating across his cheekbones that indicates a blush. ‘We’ve met precisely twice.’ 

‘I ask because he’s not the type of young man I would expect to appeal to you as a friend.’

‘I realise his appearance is against him.’

‘And his language I understand.’ That grates, and for the first time Mycroft speaks without reserve. 

‘Does the landlord of the Fox and Goose report back to this school on all his customers?’

‘Those he sees talking to boys that attend here yes. He is rightfully aware that we are in a position of responsibility for you.’ 

‘I do understand that sir. I don’t intend to be led astray by any undesirable influences.’ Mycroft deflates a little, smiles politely, reining in his temper and making a mental note to call Lestrade and arrange to meet somewhere else in future. 

‘I’m very pleased to hear it. I’m sure your parents will be also.’ This is below the belt, but before Mycroft can respond Mr Lyons stands up to indicate the interview is over, forcing Mycroft to take the hint and rise also, allow his hand to be shaken. He even manages to continue smiling as Mr Lyons delivers his parting shot. ‘Thank you for putting our minds at rest Mr Holmes.’


	4. Can You Dig It?

‘Undesirable influences?’ Lestrade protests, laying on his back in a swathe of buttercups and green grass. ‘Is that really what you called me? Cheeky bastard.’ He’s got his jacket rolled up under his head, basking in the sunshine like a lizard, skin seemingly more tanned every time Mycroft looks at him. Which he can do as often as he likes, Lestrade even reaching for his beer without bothering to open his eyes. 

They’d met by the war memorial for no very good reason except that it is not particularly public nor one of the places specifically banned by school rules, and then walked up the river to a quiet spot where they could have an impromptu picnic of crisps and cheese pasties, which were the most edible things Lestrade had been able to get from the post office, washed down with beer that really would have benefited from better refrigeration. 

‘Did the woman on the counter honestly think you were 18?’ Mycroft asks.

‘Not her problem is it? I think she just wanted me out of there to be honest.’ 

‘That’s a deplorable attitude.’

‘Not really. I probably looked like trouble.’

‘Well, you do rather.’

Lestrade (Mycroft doesn’t know what it says about him that he continues to think of most boys his age surname-before-first name, unless it’s that he’s institutionalized, which he doesn’t even want to speculate about) smirks and sits up, shaking the mown grass from his hair. 

‘Speaking of which, do you fancy coming to a party?’ Mycroft is instantly cautious.

‘What kind of a party?’ 

‘In a field just down the road from here - off the motorway. I was talking to a mate of mine the other day..’

‘An illegal party?’ Mycroft really wishes he could manage to sound more cool and less scandalized about this.

‘Sort of. You’ll be fine though. Just don’t take any funny looking pills without letting me have a look at them first.’

‘I wasn’t intending to take any pills at all.’ 

‘Good man.. Seriously though. This bloke’s a bit older than me and I don’t want to tag along with him all night. You want in?’ 

Mycroft hesitates. It had been different meeting by chance in the pub, or even spending those hours together up in London. He’d felt in control of that, and when Lestrade had given him a number and said ‘Call me if you get bored’ he’d been happy to take it. Not because, he tells himself firmly, he was developing another unsuitable infatuation. Just out of curiosity, really. 

Going to an illegal party is a different thing entirely, and not one he's at all sure about. There's something else as well, not necessarily bad, but something Lestrade isn't telling him about why he's going to a party with 'a bloke' he wants to avoid. Mycroft doesn't like not knowing things.

Lestrade can obviously see that because eventually he shrugs and just says. ‘Well it’s up to you. You’ve got my number.’ 

 

Mycroft still hasn’t made up his mind when he’s ambushed by Jeremy in the hall later. Such a thing would have been unthinkable three weeks ago – Mycroft’s consciousness of just how close or far away Jeremy is has been near constant and vaguely worrying, like a wasp in the room, for months. He actually hadn’t noticed how bad it was getting until it stopped, and the relief is enormous. 

Still he lets Jeremy trail him into his room, snuggle down into the comfortable chair, and never thinks of asking him what he wants before Jeremy is ready to tell him.  
It doesn't take long.

‘So what’s he like?’ He asks, apropos of nothing. 

‘I’m sorry?’ 

‘This parcel delivery boy you’re seeing. Do your parents know? I bet they don’t.’ Jeremy is actually sneering. It makes him look much older and really rather unpleasant. ‘Still it’s not as if you’re going to get him pregnant I suppose.’ 

‘We’re not..’ But Jeremy raises his voice over the top of Mycroft’s protests, pushing the barb in deeper.

‘Oh don’t think I mind. I was beyond fed up of you mooning around after me anyway.’ 

‘Have you come here to wish me luck then?’ Mycroft suggests sweetly. 

‘If you like.’ Jeremy's unfolding himself from the chair now, ready to leave. Only pausing briefly and dramatically in the open doorway for his parting shot. ‘ _Jolly_ good luck. _Do_ try not to catch anything. I hear rabies is _very_ nasty.’ 

The unnecessary viciousness of that last remark leaves Mycroft staring stupidly for a moment at the now empty space where Jeremy was, unable to even begin to work out what all that was about. If he didn't know better he'd think it was jealousy talking, but fond as Jeremy is of making Mycroft jump through hoops he's not actually that interested in him. He's certainly not attracted to him. 

So why should he care if Mycroft is seeing Lestrade? 

Not that Mycroft really is of course. At least he doesn’t think so. 

Maybe if he went to this party he’d find out for certain? 

It has to be worth a try.


	5. You're Gonna Need Someone on Your Side

The trouble with knowing someone like Jimmy, as Lestrade realized a while back now, is you can’t really avoid them for very long before they accidentally on purpose run into you in the street and start accusing you, in a hurt voice like treacle over salted razorblades, of avoiding them. 

Lestrade had, in sheer self preservation, denied it quickly. Maybe a bit too quickly, given the shark like smile he’d got back and the enquiry about where he’d been lately. Something else he wouldn’t have talked so freely about if he’d ever dreamt Jim would be familiar with the little village off the Portsmouth Road, although now he’s looking back he could kick himself. The place is only a couple of miles from the M25. Everyone knows raves are mostly held just off the M25, so why wouldn’t a dealer, of all people, know all that area? 

It’s maybe a bit paranoid of him to not want to go by himself. It’s not that he’s really expecting any trouble – Jim thinks they’re friends, and Greg isn’t about to do anything to burst that delusion. Mycroft is just an alibi, the best possible excuse to lose Jimmy and his mates once they get there. He’s on the way too, so nothing can happen to Lestrade without Mycroft knowing. 

Not that anything will happen of course, that’s just his paranoia talking again. 

He’d still be happier if Jim’s mate picked him up in anything but a white van with no windows in the back though. Mycroft, who’s waiting at the war memorial for them, doesn’t look particularly happy about it either. Maybe he thinks he’s being kidnapped. Lestrade wouldn’t blame him. 

If they are being kidnapped he doesn't know how he'll ever be able to apologise enough.

So it’s nice to get out at the other end and breathe the fresh air. It’s a warmish night but the grass underfoot makes it feel cooler, and there are trees sheltering the spot around, a glitter of water to the right.

‘I know where we are.’ Mycroft says quietly. ‘This is Inshinnin Mere. We’ve had nature walks through here.’ He’s brought a drawstring bag with a change of top and underwear in and some cash, since Lestrade suggested he shouldn’t leave anything in the vehicle.

There’s a rough stage set up on the opposite side of the mere, reminding Mycroft of the sail of a tall ship, billowing canvas high above it, lit up with brilliant spots of colour, reflection in the water below. It’s all a little unreal. Lestrade looks almost fey in the dim light too, dark eyes even darker, hair falling in his eyes, glowing bracelets round his wrists. He pulls on them absently with his teeth, worrying at the problem of how to lose Jim and the driver without pissing them off too much.

Actually, for whatever reason, it’s not even an issue and Lestrade really does think he was being paranoid now. He forgets them in an instant anyway, the beat is pounding through the ground and for a moment he has the mad idea that it’s pumping sap up into the trees, energizing them like it’s energizing him. He wants to dance. 

Mycroft just bounces up and down at first on his toes, feeling foolish, but Lestrade’s enthusiasm is infectious and it seems ridiculous to come here and not at least try to do it properly, so he tries jumping, and waving his hands in the air, and he must be doing something right because after about a minute he stops consciously following the beat, some sort of instinct taking over, and time begins to accelerate as the different tracks blur into one another but somehow he’s still dancing. 

He’s just about aware enough to wonder what’s got into him. He hates exercise and although he’s learnt to dance at school this is nothing like that. He vaguely remembers being told at some point that exercise releases dopamine, adrenaline, causes a natural high. He’s never really believed it, certainly never experienced it before. Now it seems as long as he does keep moving he can keep moving. He had no idea he had so much untapped energy. He’s probably making a complete fool of himself of course but he’s strangely alright with that too, possibly because so are several other people around him. One or two even bump into him, overenthusiastic and apologetic. Lestrade doesn’t, although he’s dancing even closer, close enough that Mycroft can feel the heat radiating off him, see the sweat that darkens his fringe and outlines his upper lip in light, making Mycroft suddenly ridiculously happy. 

Eventually they get too warm and have to sip the now lukewarm water Lestrade brought along.  
Only then does Mycroft realize just how hot he is, and how tired, legs like jelly. He stumbles slightly and braces himself against Lestrade’s shoulder. He still feels good though, and the water helps, and Lestrade doesn’t mind and.. and he must be tired, he can’t think straight. According to his watch he’s been dancing for two hours, which he can hardly believe, and he doesn't even think of objecting when Lestrade suggests they're good for two hours more. 

Actually they start winding down before that, and so does the music, slow trance type sounds interspersing with the loud thump-thump bass, and eventually Lestrade catches hold of his hand - he's more tactile in this environment, more relaxed - and they head back the way they came, swaying on their feet with exhaustion. 

For a moment they think they've gone wrong. There's a red Vauxhall where the van was, and no sign of the people who dropped them, but it doesn't take long for the penny to drop. They've been abandoned. They'll have to find another ride home.


	6. You're Gonna Need Someone on Your Side

Lestrade doesn’t exactly lose his temper at this point, although the colour of his language for a minute or so indicates to Mycroft how much he might like to. 

‘Perhaps he simply forgot us.’ Mycroft suggests once Lestrade pauses for breath, but Greg knows that isn’t the case. This is Jimmy’s way of telling him to sod off then, if he doesn’t like him.

‘He’s angry with me because I’ve been avoiding him.’

‘And why have you been avoiding him?’

‘Because he drags me into things I’d be better off out of.’ Lestrade drops himself down on a handy fallen tree, temporarily defeated. ‘And then I get locked up for three months while he comes out smelling of roses. I think they must’ve liked his face or something.’

‘What did you do exactly?’ 

‘Possession, same as he did. They were personal use though. I wasn’t dealing or nothing.’ It still rankles. ‘Poxy magistrate said I was a persistent offender.’

‘That’s a lovely title. It makes you sound like you’ve really worked for it.’ 

Lestrade snaps out of it then, laughing at himself.  
‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to whine on about.. stuff.’ 

‘Surely you’re too young for prison.’ 

‘Not really. They don’t call it that, but it is what it is.’ Lestrade pauses in picking bark off the dead tree he is perched on and squints up at Mycroft, wondering if he’s imagining the outrage in Mycroft’s voice. He can’t tell from his expression though. It’s quite dark here.  
There’s not too many people around either. Would it be a really bad idea to see if they could beg a lift off a complete stranger?  
‘Any bright ideas about how we get home?’ He says at last. ‘You said you knew where we are.’

‘Perhaps the train? I’m sure we went over a level crossing shortly before we arrived and all this area is commuter belt, there should be no lack of stations.’

‘You know it’s gone three in the morning don’t you?’

‘Then it will be 6 o’clock in two or three hours, and I believe the trains start earlier than that.’

‘Come on then.’ Lestrade stands up. ‘No use standing here.’

They actually end up hitting the motorway and having to turn round at first, but eventually, after a few false starts, they first find the old Portsmouth road, then something that looks like a high street with a kebab van in and, after a frankly awful kebab, a fizzy drink each and some almost accurate directions (Mycroft was fairly sure the final scramble up and along an embankment liberally embedded with brambles was not the approach to the station that the kebab van owner had intended them to take), an actual station platform. By now it is 4am. The first train is due at about 5.30. Which isn’t too bad, really.

‘What time do you suppose the ticket office opens?’ Mycroft asks, stifling the most enormous yawn. His arms and legs feel fine now but he still can't shake off the desire for sleep. 

‘Dunno.’ Nor is Lestrade interested. He hasn’t got the money for a ticket anyway. So it’s vaguely annoying when Mycroft locates a machine just outside the station and, after buying his own, comes back and looks at Lestrade in that expectant way. 

‘Don’t you intend to buy a ticket?’

‘With what? Shirtbuttons?’ 

‘I’ll get you a ticket then. First class?’ It takes a moment for Lestrade to realise that Mycroft is joking. Even then he scowls.

‘Git.’ Then he adds, more awkwardly. ‘You bought the kebab as well.’ 

‘If you’re feeling bad about it you can go and find out if the bakery over the road will sell us tea or coffee. The light's on, so someone’s in there. We might be lucky.’ Mycroft hesitates then, torn between greed and slight shame. In the end greed wins. ‘Four sugars for me. And a doughnut, if they’ve got one.’

The coffee is instant and scalding, the lids of the Styrofoam cups ill fitting, so that hot liquid splashes out on incautious fingers, but it goes some way towards pepping them up for the wait and the journey back to London. 

‘So are you coming back to mine for a bit?’ Lestrade asks. ‘What time will your hotel let you check in?’ 

‘10am.’ 

‘I’ll do us breakfast then. I’m not far out. Just off the Old Kent Road.’


	7. You're Gonna Need Someone on Your Side

Breakfast consists of things fried in hard margarine: tomato, eggs and white sliced bread, and tea, which is where Lestrade tells Mycroft to make himself useful. 

Naturally he does his best but the instructions on the packet aren’t particularly detailed and Lestrade has to correct him almost at once, catching hold of his arm as he goes to pour the milk. 

‘Wait until it’s brewed a bit.’ He explains, releasing Mycroft’s arm again with an apologetic pat and going back to his frying pan. ‘Let me guess, you’ve only ever made tea in a teapot before.’ 

Mycroft, who has literally never made tea at all as there always seemed to be someone else around to do it, doesn’t answer. Instead he folds out the drop leaf of the scuffed and battered table (some kind of plastic over some kind of compressed wood chippings) so that they both have somewhere to eat. There's a folded up bit of cardboard on the floor, and he's rather proud of working out it's there to wedge under the hinged leg and keep it steady.

Lestrade has made a sandwich of his breakfast, ketchup and egg yolk dripping back to the plate as he bites into it, but he finds Mycroft a knife and fork and their elbows nudge in the confined space as he uses them. They have to sit side by side because the only seating in the kitchen is a built-in bench with wipe-clean cushions, a few of which have holes in the blue plastic coating - accident or idle vandalism - revealing their yellow foam innards.  
There is more comfortable furniture in the living room but they don’t want to share it with the old man watching Going Live and the clouds of cigarette smoke he’s already choked the room with.

‘He’s alright really.’ Lestrade says as he closes the door between them. ‘Lost his job about a year ago, couldn’t pay his mortgage, poor sod ended up here. No wonder he’s always so miserable.’ 

‘Why is he watching children’s television?’ Lestrade shrugs.

‘It’s on isn’t it?’ 

‘And there’s no dining room I suppose?’ Mycroft asks, pausing in his eating, fork poised with egg on the tines when Lestrade makes a choking noise. ‘Please stop laughing at me.’ 

‘Sorry,’ Lestrade wipes tears from his eyes (it’s painful to laugh with a mouthful of fried bread) ‘I’m not laughing at you. It’s just no-one cooks that much here.’ He watches while Mycroft resumes eating, not replying, just stabbing his egg with unnecessary violence. 

There are bluish circles under Mycroft’s eyes, stark on pale skin, and his mouth is turned down at the corners. Greg feels a lot like a git again.

He puts his sandwich on his plate a moment so that he can get Mycroft’s attention by knocking his hand gently with Lestrade’s own, knuckles bumping lightly together. ‘I’m not laughing at you.’ He repeats when Mycroft looks at him. 

Their eyes catch just a little too long before Mycroft nods, apology accepted, and turns his attention back to his food. 

He’s suddenly very conscious that Lestrade is in his personal space, keeps touching him casually, but he still hasn’t worked out what (if anything) that means. 

He’s not any clearer by the time he's seen to the bus stop, although there's another light touch, holding Mycroft briefly back as the other passengers start shuffling on. 

‘You’re in town a few more days right? give me a ring if you get bored.’ 

‘Bored?' Now it's Mycroft's turn to laugh. 'I suspect any further excitement would finish me off. I’ve never been up all night before.’

‘Seriously?’ 

‘Are you doing anything for dinner later?’ Mycroft supposes they could have had this conversation earlier, maybe over breakfast, but it’s already proved awkward, this matter of money, and he doesn't want to give Lestrade time to overthink. ‘You have just fed me.’ He points out, and that seems to do the trick because Lestrade pulls himself together and shrugs.

‘Ok, where’d you want to meet?’


	8. You're Gonna Need Someone on Your Side

Mycroft runs himself a hot bath filled with all the free bubbles his hotel provides as standard and sleeps for most of the day after the party, uncharacteristically naked between cool cotton sheets. It’s comfortable, slightly hedonistic, and makes him wonder if Lestrade has gone to bed too, whether he wears pyjamas or doesn’t bother, whether he has a double bed like this one or a single like the one at school. Exactly where on his body the tan lines lie. 

Later on, after sliding back into trousers he really should have thought to ask the hotel to get dry cleaned for him, he rings Mummy to make sure that no alarm has been raised – it would have been most inconvenient if anyone had seen him get in that van last night – and that his parents are safely still in Dorset and not liable to make an appearance in the small restaurant they sometimes like to go to before the theatre.

It’s the best place he can think of to have dinner with Lestrade. Vaguely bohemian – so Lestrade’s jeans won’t be an issue - and not intimidatingly expensive. Especially if one has the truly awful house red which they bring to the table in a carafe and which Mummy always orders just to check her memory of how bad it is. 

In her absence though Mycroft very much prefers fizzy mineral water and Lestrade likes to stick to beer, although he does pick a slightly more upmarket French brand. 

‘Haven’t tried this since I went to Paris with the school.’ He explains. ‘They didn’t want to take me because I’d bunked so much, but they weren’t paying for it, so they had to.’

‘Did you pass the exam?’

‘O level? No. the only one of those I passed was history. We had a blinding history teacher - Mrs Rebeiro. Well past retirement age and mad as a box of cats but she got us all through the exam. No-one else seemed fussed. She’s gone now though, didn’t want to bother with the GCSE.’ 

Mycroft got high marks in all his O levels, even the ones he took early, but he decides to keep this to himself. 

‘Are you interested in history?’

‘Not especially.’ Lestrade says distractedly, automatically. He’s more than fed up of people trying to prod him into retakes, although he doesn’t think that’s what’s going on here. Doesn’t know what’s going on here in fact, which is another reason he’s fed up and distracted. He really doesn’t like the idea of Mycroft trying to buy his company or his.. anything else. He's already been down that road - without meaning to, but that's not the point - and it's not a thing he wants to do on purpose. In a minute he’ll have to say so. 

Meanwhile Mycroft is amused by Lestrade's attitude to education.

‘You denied that as though I’d accused you of something horrendous.’

‘Mycroft.’ Lestrade puts down his cutlery and folds his arms. Better to get it over with. ‘Let’s just get this sorted shall we? You’re not making a pass at me here are you?’ 

‘I rather think I’d find a better class of restaurant for that.’ It's deflection of course, worded to make Lestrade snort with laughter and return to his food with relieved vigour. He doesn't see Mycroft’s poker face crack for just a second, can’t tell how stupid Mycroft feels at this moment. 

 

‘You do fancy me though.’ Much later that night Lestrade is sitting on Mycroft’s hotel bed, propped up against the headboard, shoes kicked off and legs loosely crossed at the ankle. Mycroft favours a less knotted version of the lotus position and despite the late night movie has clearly completely failed in his resolution not to look at Lestrade every few minutes. He's just so interesting, that slim strip of paler skin revealed at his waist, denim folded and draped over the long line of his legs. Dark lashes over still darker eyes. Mycroft can't stop looking.

‘Is whether I fancy you important?’ He asks tightly. His own stupidity is never a welcome subject. 

‘I don’t know, is it?’ Lestrade turns to peer up at him, trying to work out why he's gone all sarcastic, but Mycroft is already looking away, embarrassed, and his eye catches the clock gratefully.

‘What time does the last bus leave?’ He says. It’s a neutral enough comment but what Lestrade hears, unsurprisingly, is that he’s being kicked out. So he doesn’t mention night buses, or try to get to the bottom of why Mycroft fancies him but doesn’t seem to want him. Class issues? In the closet? Doesn't matter really.  
He just shrugs his jacket back on and mutters his usual:

‘Call me if you get bored.’

‘I’m always bored.’ Mycroft admits without thinking. Lestrade lets himself smile, just a little rueful.

‘So call me.’


	9. You're Gonna Need Someone on Your Side

But Mycroft doesn’t call. He thinks about it repeatedly - at least daily - but dismisses the idea out of hand each time. Meanwhile he barely leaves the school building, fills every waking moment with the comforting anaesthetic of study, the rather more intense drug of actual exams. He tells himself Lestrade was just a foolish distraction, something he should never have let his imagination run away on, and it’s time to knuckle down and concentrate on what he’s good at.

Jeremy only appears in Mycroft’s doorway in the very last week of term, strangely smug.

‘So you finally saw sense then?’ He says. 'Given the errand boy the push?'

Mycroft doesn’t respond at first, embarrassed to admit it was the other way about, especially when he knows that to Jeremy such a thing would be unthinkable, that Lestrade is and always will be a pleb.

  
It’s thoughts like that which make him wonder whether maybe Lestrade was right to not want.. to think better of it. They don’t really fit together even as friends.

Now he’s definitely blushing, ashamed of his refusal to face up to reality. Truth be told he knows why Lestrade isn’t interested – and it’s for the same reason Jeremy has already got bored of baiting him and wandered off again. Because he’s a bit pompous and an unhealthy pale colour and doesn’t really have a chin. Also his nose looks like a beak (he’s critiquing himself in the wall mirror now, standing sideways, which is always a bad sign. He’s never liked his nose.).

He still feels bitter. And he wouldn’t mind knowing why Lestrade thought it was a good idea to let him get so attached, if he knew Mycroft was attracted to him and it wasn’t mutual.

He's determined to ask him that actually. Right this minute before he loses his nerve.

He doesn’t even want the delay of walking to the box outside the gate to guarantee privacy but marches to the phone in the main hall instead, dialling with sharp, unnecessarily aggressive movements.

It takes the wind out of his sails completely when Lestrade greets him with cheerful enthusiasm.

‘Hi Mycroft. How do you feel about pizza?’

‘I have no strong feelings about pizza.’

‘Berk.’ Lestrade says affectionately. ‘No, I mean I got a job delivering pizza. It’s the new thing – they’re screaming for people. Money’s a bit rubbish but you get tips on top and half a free pizza a night. Ice-cream too sometimes.’

‘What do they do with the other half of the pizza?’

‘I dunno, give it to someone else probably. Look - can you get up to town sometime soon?’

‘I suppose so. My exams finish tomorrow but the last day of term isn’t until the end of the week.’ Mycroft is already wondering if he’ll regret this but that doesn’t stop the faint flutter of renewed hope. Maybe Lestrade didn’t mean.. maybe he misses Mycroft as well. Maybe if Mycroft goes along with this ridiculous plan of booking a hotel room tomorrow night so Lestrade can deliver him pizza in it then once they’re alone.. Maybe.

He hangs up the receiver in a better mood than he has been for weeks.

 _Sorted_. Lestrade feels he did quite well, really. He still can’t work out if Mycroft is shy or some sort of not very out there snob but at least he won’t be sitting through another restaurant meal with a waiter hovering about and middle aged couples all round them, stuck in his seat and feeling bloody awkward. Like a rent boy at a Buckingham Palace tea party.

Tomorrow’s good too. He’d like to see Mycroft tomorrow. He wouldn’t mind seeing him now actually, sitting here on the bed all folded up like he does - elbows on his knees and fingers latticed under his chin. Thinking thinky thoughts, as the old dear who cleaned the rooms at Priors called it.

Lestrade leans back and closes his eyes, better to visualise Mycroft gazing off into the middle distance, miles away, then coming back to himself as Lestrade invites him to lay down properly, relax. (That’s definitely what he should do tomorrow, try to get Mycroft horizontal somehow, try to get him paying attention.)

Lestrade decides not to take the fantasy any further right now though. It’s too hazy to be satisfying.


	10. You're Gonna Need Someone on Your Side

‘So when did you take this job?’ Mycroft asks much, much later when they’ve had pizza and watched the BBC closedown. Somewhere out of the open window there’s the faint sound of a train – they’re not miles from Paddington – but it’s only the one train, and it’s probably the last. 

‘A few weeks back.’ Lestrade pauses in trying to tune the small radio in the room to a police frequency. Mycroft’s never listened in on the police before. ‘I just decided it was time. You see right now they can’t cut my benefit because I’m on a leaving care thing, but once I’m 18 any money I get will mess me up, so I thought I’d put a little bit away while I’ve got the chance.’

‘I see, to tide you over. What’s a leaving care thing?’

‘It’s what they give you when you’re too old for a foster home.’ Lestrade explains, one ear still to the radio ‘And in answer to the next question I don’t know and I don’t care.’

‘I wasn’t actually going to ask.’ 

‘Tactful. But I’m over it Mycroft, really. If I ever knew them I don’t remember them.’ 

‘Will you have to stop working once you’re on unemployment benefit?’

‘Dunno, I’ll have to work out what it costs me.’

‘And presumably how bored you are of eating pizza.’ That makes Lestrade smile.

‘You look so solemn when you’re being funny, you know that?’ He gives up on the radio and shifts a little closer to Mycroft as he speaks, locking their gazes together. ‘In fact sometimes I don’t think I’d realize you were telling me a joke if you didn’t get this..’ Lestrade flounders a bit, searching for the right term. ‘Poker-face first.’ 

‘I had no idea you were paying so much attention.’ 

‘Well I was. I am.’ Up close Mycroft’s eyes are brilliant; intense June-sky blue ringed with indigo. He has tiny freckles dotted randomly across his cheekbones, as if he’s been sprinkled with unrefined sugar, and his hair is rebelling and trying to curl forward at the front despite all his attempts to smooth it sleekly back.   
In fact there’s one lock of it, especially defiant, that Lestrade can’t help reaching up to tease out, loosening it to fall over Mycroft’s forehead like a comma. 

Just one of Mycroft’s eyebrows arches in response (How does he do that? He’s like Mr Spock or something) as he takes a moment to think.

‘Are you making a pass at me now?’ He says at last. 

Greg almost shouts with frustration, refrains from jabbing him with a finger to his ribs.

‘See, I knew you were making a pass – why did you pretend you weren’t?’

‘I didn’t feel very encouraged to.’

‘I only came back and lay on your bed half the night. Do you want it in writing or something?’ 

At this suggestion Mycroft’s natural reticence overtakes him and he breaks eye contact again.

‘No that.. that won’t be necessary.’ 

‘So..’ Lestrade draws the word out, knuckles gently grazing beneath Mycroft’s chin to tilt his face back up. Mycroft draws a breath in response, swallows nervously.

‘I think we should possibly stop talking now.’ He says.

‘Works for me. You use too many words anyway.’

‘Stop. Talking. Now.’ 

Lestrade stops talking. They do have better things to do.


End file.
